


The Umemi

by A_Fine_Piece



Series: A Thin Red Line [63]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Babies, Bickering, Dancing, F/M, First Kiss, Flirting, Hisana Lives!, Idiots in Love, Implied Sexual Content, Love Confessions, Married Couple, Married Life, Photographs, Twins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:33:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26061217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Fine_Piece/pseuds/A_Fine_Piece
Summary: Byakuya writes a letter to the editor of the Seireitei Communication to complain about the SWA's captain's calendar.  Hisana helps Rukia and her friends prepare for a dance.  Renji and Rukia have a moment after a vice-captain meeting.
Relationships: Abarai Renji/Kuchiki Rukia, Kuchiki Byakuya/Kuchiki Hisana
Series: A Thin Red Line [63]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/93946
Comments: 6
Kudos: 18





	The Umemi

Feeling the cool kiss of air through the open door, Hisana’s gaze flits to the garden as she sends the temari rolling to Haku. 

Spring has swept across the garden. The branches of their cherry and plum trees sag under the weight of vibrant blossoms. Wind plucks at the cascading wisteria vines that edge the courtyard, rustling the lavender flowers.

Improvements can still be made, she thinks with a little sigh. But, it’s almost _there_. A thought—she knows—that comes to her every spring when she takes stock of her hard work.

Haku’s giggle drags her attention to him. Happily, the child swats the temari to her then claps his hands when it rolls in her general direction.

Hisana grins at the babe, leans forward, and places her finger to her lips. Softly, she shushes him, “Father is working,” she whispers, glimpsing her husband with a sly look.

Haku’s eyes squeeze shut and his giggling intensifies. 

The child does not care about reports, spreadsheets, ledgers, or his father’s compulsive desire to review such things on his _day off_.

Or, at least, that’s what Hisana _thinks_ her husband is doing. There is a stack of documents on his writing desk, true, but, upon closer examination, the papers appear abandoned, cast to the side _._

So, _what_ , exactly, _is_ he doing? 

The line of his shoulders is too stiff for him to be endeavoring in anything _fun_ , and the grip on his writing brush appears _firm_ , not relaxed, so it’s not a challenging piece of calligraphy that occupies him. 

With furrowed brow, Hisana rolls the ball back to Haku, who is just _thrilled_ to have predicted its trajectory, batting it away before it bumps his leg. Another round of clapping and laughter fills the room. 

Smiling at Haku, Hisana leans to the side to scoop up the temari before it shoots across the room. Her eyes then dart to Shiro, who lays sleeping in his father’s lap in what appears to be an uncomfortable position for them both. 

Shiro’s cheeks are still pink from the tantrum he threw when Byakuya had the nerve to prevent the babe from crawling out onto the engawa. Three attempts it took before Shiro finally broke down into tears at the realization that his father is more stubborn than he.

Both Hisana and Haku took great amusement from the battle of wills that commenced. Byakuya, who rarely countenances defiance from anyone much less anyone in his own home, was at a complete loss at how to communicate the concept of “no” to Shiro. Shiro also was at a loss as to what to do when his favorite person persistently told him “no.”

Hisana’s already envisioning the day when Shiro is handed a bokken and then proceeds to terrorize everyone in the house. The servants will need a raise—a sizeable one—as an inducement not to quit _en masse_. 

“Is Father doing paperwork,” Hisana sings sweetly to Haku, who strains to smack the ball when his first attempt misses, “on his _day off_?”

“I’m writing a letter to the editor,” responds Byakuya, pointedly. 

“Which publication?”

“The _Seireitei Communication_ ,” he mutters under his breath.

“Did they print something untoward?” It wouldn’t be the _first time_ her family unfairly found themselves in the gossip column. Especially now that Rukia is….

Hisana pauses, wondering if Byakuya knows about Rukia. He must. Certainly. And, yet, he hasn’t said anything. No barbed commentary on _the ruffian_. No philosophizing on the difficulties of a match well made. No thinly veiled speeches made in reference to some acquaintance of theirs that, in actuality, is targeted at Rukia.

He’s either taking this incredibly well, or he’s in denial. 

She’s betting on the latter being true.

“No,” he says, irritation building in his voice, “it’s about the SWA.”

Hisana can’t repress the silent chuckle that splits her lips. Haku, however, interprets her expression and bursts into laughter, betraying her hidden amusement. 

Byakuya shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

“The Captains’ Calendar again?” asks Hisana, careful to keep the giggle from her voice.

“It’s unseemly how the female seated officers behave. Vice Captains and Captains no less.” 

The _indignation_! Hisana wants desperately to laugh at it, but she _can’t_ because it’s too honestly felt by her dear husband. 

Why? 

Well, she doesn’t quite know why. The SWA has been putting the Captains’ Calendar together for _years_ as a relatively harmless fundraiser, and her husband has been a target of their recruitment efforts for roughly the same number of _years_. 

Shouldn’t he be used to it by now? 

Also, if he really truly _hated_ it, he could end the cat-and-mouse dance that commences around this time of year by submitting to their request. Wouldn’t that be easier?

Not that he would ever admit defeat. 

Indeed, Hisana is beginning to suspect that the SWA and Byakuya enjoy the challenge that the other presents. He won’t consent, and they won’t take no for an answer. Every year the campaigns against one another escalate. 

But, if Byakuya secretly likes the challenge of staving off a bunch of ambitious women, then why is he writing a letter to the editor? Shūhei Hisagi doesn’t have any power over the SWA. 

Perhaps Byakuya hopes to dissuade the _Seireitei Communication_ from publicizing the organization and its calendar this year. Or, perhaps Byakuya has already gone to better authorities about the _scourge_ of women trying to take his photo only to be shot down. Briefly, Hisana wonders if her husband went to the _Captain-Commander_ with his grievances. If so, then is this calendar effectively blessed by _Yamamoto_ himself?

She wants to laugh at the absurdity of such an idea, but she manages to keep it together long enough to tease her husband. “And, this is over a picture?”

Byakuya turns his head and _glares_ at her over his shoulder. “Picture-taking is boorish.”

“You took a picture of me once,” she adds, pretending to be too dense to appreciate his _torment_ , “you didn’t find picture-taking boorish then.” 

Immediately, the tension in his back goes slack, and the rhythmic rustle of bristles skating across paper ceases. “That was different,” he murmurs quietly.

Hisana’s easy smile fades. 

She had long forgotten the real reason why her husband took that picture. An easy thing to do, she comforts herself, when he lied to her about his motivations. 

He told her that he wanted the picture for his desk at work, that it was something spouses did, and that it would make him happy to see her face even when they were apart. 

She hadn’t believed him. Byakuya does not care for newfangled customs, especially ones that come from the World of Living. She knew then that he took the picture because she was dying, and he was worried that time would eventually rob him of the memory of her, of what she looked like, of the color of her eyes, of the fall of her hair.

Hisana hated that picture. So very much. Illness had stolen the vigor from her skin, the luster and shine from her hair, her fire, and, because she had been fighting back tears, her eyes had a glassy quality that made her look even more pitiful. 

She hadn’t protested, though. She knew that he did it out of love. A love that, at the time, she didn’t feel deserving of.

The picture now sits in his office at the Sixth, a fact that gives her an easy out, “How is keeping a picture of me on your desk for fifty years much different than a picture of you on someone’s desk for a _month?_ ”

“Intent.”

“Intent?” she mocks. 

“First,” he begins, voice even but haughty, “we are married. It’s customary to have photos of one’s family on their desk. Second, the calendar photos of the captains are all indecent. Do you want strange women staring at me with their impure _intent_?”

“You mean staring at you with _lust_?” she cackles, which prompts Haku to squeal with joy at a new sound that he very badly wants to imitate. 

Byakuya turns to her and his son; betrayal dims the light in his eyes. 

His poor, wounded pride.

Hisana has no choice but to rectify this misunderstanding at once. “I’ve long lost that battle, milord. Women have never sought my permission to lust after you and yet still they do.”

The hurt fades from his face, but he remains steadfast in his conviction as he returns to penning what appears to be a _treatise_ to the editor.

“Also,” Hisana trills, the beat of her heart quickening as _another memory_ sails into her head, “I remember a time when _my_ likeness was sold to placate the _impure_ desires of others.”

Byakuya stops writing immediately. 

She grins. “Imagine my surprise when I was cleaning out some cupboards a few years ago and stumbled across one.”

He casts a sheepish sidelong glance her direction. “It is art.”

“Art!”

“It is a painting. That’s art,” he reasons.

“So, you hung it proudly in a common room for your grandfather and all your relatives to admire because it was art?”

“It was private art.”

“So, you hung it proudly in your room, then?”

“Very private art.”

Hisana cocks a brow in victory. 

“I was young,” he says defensively, “and the painting wasn’t so scandalous. I’ve always been fond of your back.”

Her eyes widen at this confession. “The painting wasn’t of my back.” 

How many of those intolerable things did he own? 

The muscles in his face tighten, and his gaze dives to the floor. A pale blush spreads across his cheeks. Internal horror, however, never looked so handsome.

“I don’t know what’s worse,” she says after a pregnant pause, “that you don’t know _which_ painting I found _or_ that you were lusting after my likeness at a time when you were turning down all my actual advances on you.” The last part is the one that stings the most when she hears it.

“I loved you,” he says, meeting her stare with a solemn look.

Yes, she knows. He’s never actually said it with words. But, she knows the reason why he turned her down. For almost ten years. Straight. 

He never wanted sex to be corrupted by obligation.

“I’m also pleased that you can better appreciate why I loathe the SWA. This was a productive discussion,” he says with the authority of a person who has just _won_ an argument. 

Hisana narrows her eyes. She is about to correct this _assumption_ of his when a loud, startling _crash_ jerks her attention to the door leading into the manor.

Byakuya and Hisana exchange glances. 

What the hell was that? 

“I’ll go check on it,” she says, shifting her weight to her feet before her husband can do the same. 

Haku watches her with a wary look, his chin quivering as if he might dissolve into a good sob if she dares to leave him. Wanting very much to avoid that fate, Hisana scoops the babe into her arms before he has the chance to weaponize his tears, an act that appeases Haku instantly. 

Then, she is off.

The crash sounded from just beyond their rooms, near the library. Who could be in there? The servants shouldn’t be cleaning the library at this time of the day, and Rukia….

Hisana realizes her mistake just as her foot slaps against the floor. Cold terror rips through her, freezing her heart, her lungs, and her limbs. 

Laughter. No. Girlish giggling to be precise.

_Rukia and her friends…._

Is it an SWA meeting? Hisana would’ve remembered such a thing. Rukia always told her when the meetings were scheduled at the manor to ensure that Byakuya was kept far away. Not that Hisana held any delusions that her husband wasn’t _perfectly aware_ of what was happening, but he was good at pretending not to notice when not directly confronted with it.

Either way, Hisana doesn’t want to intrude on her sister’s private time with her friends, and, so, she sinks deep into her heels to turn, hoping that none of the damn floorboards chirp under her weight. A cheerful squawk from Haku, however, douses this hope in an instant. 

Momo Hinamori’s face peers out from the door. “It’s Lady Kuchiki and one of the twins!” she announces, head bent toward those inside the room.

“Sister?” Rukia appears next at the room’s threshold, eyes bright and cheeks flush with blood.

“I heard a crash,” says Hisana, inching back a step.

“One of the twins?” Rangiku Matsumoto, who Hisana vaguely remembers meeting at a toy shop when she was pregnant, pops her head through the doorway. “Babies!” she beams before squeezing her way between Rukia and the other Shinigami, her blonde hair bouncing with each step. 

Haku sees Rangiku and immediately reaches for her once she’s within range. 

With a wide smile, the blonde takes the boy’s gesture as an invitation and, in a fluid motion, has him firmly in her arms. 

Haku turns to Hisana, face alight and giggling like he’s just won the world’s largest lottery. 

With all hope of extricating herself from _this_ dashed, Hisana forces a smile. “I take it all is well, then?” Her gaze snaps to Rukia.

“We were trying to find your old dancing fans,” says Rukia with a guilty lilt in her voice. 

“Oh?” Hisana knows exactly where those are. A sense of purpose conquers her apprehension, and she glides into the library. In an instant, she goes to a bookshelf with a built-in cabinet beneath it, unsticks the door, and finds her old trunk.

She hasn’t seen this trunk in _years_. _Years and years._

How did Rukia even know it existed?

“Brother mentioned them once,” says Rukia, reading the confusion off Hisana’s face.

Hisana wonders after the circumstances that led to her husband mentioning the fans. There are so many possible reasons. Not all of them _good_.

Shoving the possibilities aside, Hisana sets the trunk on one of the library tables and releases the belts that keep it shut. The top of the trunk pop opens with a groan, revealing a set of six ornate fans. 

They were incredibly expensive gifts, bestowed upon Hisana on her debut into the Flower and Willow World. She _never once_ used any of the fans, not wanting to risk breaking one during a dance and offending her benefactor and House. 

“These are beautiful!” says Rangiku, the melody of her voice convinces Haku to coo in agreement. 

“Yes, these are incredible,” agrees Nanao Ise.

Isane Kotetsu, one of the few Vice Captains who Hisana knows with any intimacy, nods her head in agreement, leaning over Hisana’s shoulder to examine the painted leaves.

“Brother said he bought these for you a long time ago,” says Rukia.

Hisana studies the fans. She had no idea that Byakuya selected them for her. All she had been told at the time was that it was customary to receive gifts from her sponsor. She always assumed they were purchased by some faceless Kuchiki servant who had been tasked with not-screwing-up the debut. If she had known Byakuya had personally chosen the fans, she would’ve used them for his sake.

“Would you like to use one, Rukia?” asks Hisana, cutting her sister a knowing glance. She suspects that Rukia’s sudden interest in expensive fans emanates from a source of deep pragmatism: Rukia must have been conscripted into dancing at one of the spring festival events.

“It’s for a group dance. You really wouldn’t mind?”

“Not at all.” Hisana inhales a centering breath, hoping it can stave away the feeling of expectation that swims in the room. It doesn’t. “If anyone needs to use the fans for the dance, they may as well,” she adds.

“Really?” asks Rangiku, who, before Hisana can respond, has wrapped her up in a giant hug. “And, since you’re feeling so generous, Lady Kuchiki,” she continues, “would you mind helping us prepare?”

“Rangiku!” both Nanao and Momo cry out.

“What?” Rangiku asks with a hard blink. The blonde pulls away just enough to allow Hisana a gasp of breath. “Lady Kuchiki is _famous_ for dancing. It would be a missed opportunity for us _not_ to ask!”

Haku claps at the vice captain’s enthusiasm. His wide blue eyes catch Hisana’s attention, and he babbles his approval at the commotion.

“Sister?” Rukia gives Hisana an assuaging onceover. 

“Of course,” Hisana responds, reaching deep inside to find an ounce of good cheer to brighten her voice. “It will be fun.” The smile she wears is forced, but, with the exception of Rukia, it appears to convince the other vice captains in the room of her sincerity.

* * *

“How pissed was the Captain-Commander?” asks Renji, throwing back a shoji door and crossing the threshold to Kuchiki manor.

“Pretty fucking pissed,” Shūhei admits and rubs the back of his neck.

“You did drive the machine into a wall,” Izuru observes, closing the door behind him. “A newly repaired wall.”

“Yeah,” Shūhei sighs between awkward laughter, “he mentioned that.”

“Is he letting you keep it?” asks Renji, jerking his head to signal the direction of where they’re supposed to be going for the vice captain’s meeting.

“Well,” Shūhei drawls, “he didn’t confiscate it.” Hope burns through the embarrassment in his voice.

Renji smirks. Fair enough. “Where you hiding it, then?”

“Under a tarp.”

“Clever,” teases Izuru. “A motorbike-shaped tarp. No one will suspect _a thing_.”

Shūhei scowls at Izuru. “It’s in a supply shack.”

Izuru lifts a brow; his point still stands. 

“This way,” says Renji, flicking back a door to reveal a wide corridor.

“You sure are familiar with Kuchiki manor,” notes Shūhei. 

Coming from anyone else, the comment would sound a lot like insinuation. 

Shūhei, however, doesn’t do insinuation. He’s direct to a fucking fault, which Renji appreciates. He also appreciates Shūhei’s willingness to drop a subject. Like right then: “It’s nice of Rukia and Captain Kuchiki to offer the house for our meetings during the construction,” says Renji, sidestepping the obvious implication from earlier—that he’s become a permanent fixture at the estate ever since….

Instinctively, Renji’s attention flits to Izuru. Izuru absolutely _does_ insinuation _and_ innuendo, and Renji fully expects to find his old Academy friend in full mocking mode. Izuru, however, isn’t paying them a bit of attention. He stares out one of the panels that have been shoved open to let in the fresh air from the courtyard. 

“This way, Izuru,” Renji calls with some urgency. 

It’s stupid, Renji knows, but he can’t deny the imaginary countdown clock that runs in his head, ticking down the time until they’re caught by either the Lord or Lady of the manor. Renji is very actively avoiding the former, and, wherever the latter is, the former is never far away.

“The girls,” Izuru responds, face unreadable, “they’re dancing.”

“Should we harass them?” Shūhei asks, eying Renji wolfishly. 

Renji grins. 

Part of him wants to usher his friends to safety. A bigger part of him, however, is always game for teasing his fellow vice captains. This part of him wins the tug of war in his head, and he throws back the shoji panel next to Izuru. 

Rukia, Momo, Rangiku, Nanao, Isane, and Lady Kuchiki stand under the large weeping cherry tree in the middle of the courtyard. Pink blossoms fall like snow, catching in the women’s hair and clinging to their silks. 

At the moment, the women are watching Momo twirl a fan. Mid-spin, Momo tosses the fan into the air and, then, _flails_. She barely manages to snatch it back before it crashes to the ground. 

_Yikes_. That’s unlike Momo. 

Rukia’s eyes widen to the size of saucers, and the color drains from her face.

Lady Kuchiki, however, appears unperturbed and steps forward. 

Renji catches the quiet notes of the Lady’s voice, but the wind sweeps her words away as readily as it sweeps back the cherry blossoms. Momo turns, her face a deep shade of beet-red, and she winces, as if she’s preparing for a slap to the face.

Renji can’t hear Momo’s voice, either.

“Lady Kuchiki was well-regarded for her dancing,” says Izuru, a hint of pity carries on his voice for their friend.

“Momo is good at dancing, right?” asks Shūhei.

“Momo and Rangiku both dance on occasion, _but_ ….” Izuru’s voice trails off.

Renji can fill in the blanks after Izuru’s _“but”_ : Aizen’s betrayal shattered Momo’s confidence, leaving her questioning every choice she’s ever made. Indecision paralyzes her and keeps her shut inside her head. Even now, the fluttering leaves of the fan amplify the tremor in her hand, as if she’s caught between competing thoughts. 

Lady Kuchiki moves to Momo’s side and demonstrates the correct positioning for the fan trick. Again, the Lady’s voice is too soft to hear, but her movements are clear and graceful. 

Momo watches. Her hand stops its shaking. The blush reddening her cheeks fades, and the light of determination enters her eyes.

Renji knows that look from their Academy days. Momo’s got this. She’s going to make that fan her bitch.

Momo gives a firm nod of her head, and she’s set. Her stance opens: shoulders squared, head up, and back straight. She throws the fan with confidence, quickly slides into position, and catches it with grace and ease. 

The women standing around her applaud, and, in reply, Momo bows, the fall of her hair curtaining her smile from the others.

“Maybe we shouldn’t tease them,” says Renji when Rukia apprehensively steps forward.

Rukia looks like she wants to _die_. Face white as a bedsheet. Eyes large and full of alarm. She regards her sister with an expression ordinarily reserved for a dentist about to rip the teeth from your head without anesthesia.

Lady Kuchiki nods her head and steps back a pace to give Rukia breathing room.

“Does Rukia dance?” asks Shūhei, eyes on Izuru. 

Renji swallows back the firm “no” that sticks in his throat. 

He remembers Rukia learning a dance for last year’s festival and what a struggle it was for her to commit to it, emotionally. While she did a good job by showtime, getting her comfortable with it was a _journey_. 

“She danced ably last year,” answers Izuru. 

_‘Ably_ ,’ Renji thinks and rolls his eyes. Izuru might literally burst into flame if he gave someone a full-throated compliment. Serving under Gin Ichimaru for years was bound to have an _effect_ on him.

Renji’s gaze flits back to Rukia, who is attempting the same fan maneuver as Momo.

Failure comes fast for her. The fan strikes the ground so hard it _bounces_. 

Rukia takes this _poorly_ , flustering with the force of a dog shaking the rain from its fur. 

Lady Kuchiki places a conciliatory hand on Rukia’s shoulder and appears to be trying to calm her. Rukia, however, is not having a drop of her sister’s kindness. Instead, she plucks the fan from the pile of petals, brushes it off, and tries again. 

She fails even harder this time.

Anxiety has conquered her nerves, and the more comfort anyone tries to give her, the more it worsens.

“So, dancing isn’t an inherited talent, I take it,” teases Shūhei.

“She’s anxious,” says Renji, not bothering to dull the defensive edge to his voice.

“Must be difficult having a sibling whose skill at dancing was so renowned that it garnered her the attention of her betters,” notes Izuru, voice clinical, sterile.

Renji tries hard not to glare at his friend. 

Classism is part of the culture, he reminds himself. Izuru thinks he’s being analytical, and, maybe he is, but it’s not something Renji wants to hear right then.

He’s too busy rooting for Rukia’s success.

When Rukia fails a third time, Lady Kuchiki snatches the fan from the air before it clatters to the ground. She folds the fan shut with a flick of her wrist, tucks it into her obi, and gestures for Rukia’s zanpakutō. 

Thoughtlessly, Rukia slides her sword from her obi and hands it to the Lady.

The Lady handles the sword with care. Poised and graceful, she moves the sheathed blade into several positions, as if she’s testing the weight and dimensions of the weapon. 

The Lady must say something to prompt Rukia, Momo, Rangiku, and Nanao to demonstrate their favorite battle postures. The shift from fan to sword positions breaks the tension, at least. And, watching the women offer up their favorite sword techniques appears to distract Rukia from her worry. 

Lady Kuchiki grins at the vice captains’ excitement before bringing all the positions together in a dance that ends with the sword unsheathed in a maneuver that takes Renji a minute to figure what he just saw. He could’ve sworn that the she had flung the Sode no Shirayuki’s scabbard into the air and caught it, but, when he searches for the sheath, he finds it already threaded through the Lady’s obi. 

The Lady finishes the piece with a flourish, a victory stance that, while more befitting a dancer than fighter, is gratifying to witness nonetheless. It captures the feeling of a hard win better than anything else Renji’s ever seen, and, right then, it dawns on him what people must get out of watching a dance.

Lady Kuchiki slides the zanpakutō into its sheath and returns it to Rukia with a sly glance. A challenge appears to pass between the sisters as Rukia grips the sword in her hand; it’s a playful, _‘Think you can top that?’_

The bait works. Rukia never could back down from a challenge, especially not one involving her pride and joy, Sode no Shirayuki. 

Rukia grins, the sunlight setting her eyes aflame. With a determined nod of her head, and she begins. 

Confidence and power imbue her, transforming her from a nervous wreck to something _otherworldly_. There is a steadiness—no, a strength—to her, as if she is performing an extended release of her shikai. She draws out the length of the sword positions and adds flourishes that would get you killed on the battlefield, and yet—despite the impracticality—these little embellishments perfectly reflect the emotional resonance of the escalation that happens during a good fight. 

The performance is beautiful, Renji decides. 

So very beautiful.

When Rukia finishes with the same sleight of hand trick that her sister had managed, the group of women cheers. 

Lady Kuchiki pulls Rukia into a tight embrace, and, red-cheeked, Rukia lifts her head to bask in her sister’s encouragement.

“Lady Kuchiki is a g—” begins Shūhei, only to be swiftly silenced by a familiar baritone. 

“My wife is what?”

All three of them—Renji, Shūhei, and Izuru—turn with a start. 

_Cripes!_ _Do none of the captains possess the decency of announcing their presence?_

Izuru is the first to scrape his brain off the floor and answers before Shūhei can blurt out something that will get them killed. “Lady Kuchiki is a _gracious hostess_.”

Captain Kuchiki stares impassively at Izuru. His expression is utterly inscrutable, which Renji has come to learn is _a good thing_. 

In response, the captain slams the panels overlooking the courtyard shut. “The meeting is down the hall, the second room on the left,” he says without missing a step. 

Renji, Shūhei, and Izuru trade stares. 

_That went_ _badly_ , Izuru’s glance seems to say.

Shūhei shrinks into his Shihakusho.

Renji, however, shakes it off. No guards were summoned, and the captain didn’t personally toss them out on their asses. Seems like a win.

Wordlessly, he leads the way to the meeting room, pausing briefly to glance behind him as he closes the shoji door. A wry smile tugs at the corners of his lips when he catches Captain Kuchiki staring out onto the courtyard, features softer than Renji’s ever remembered seeing before.

 _Hypocrite_ , Renji thinks, chuckling under his breath.

* * *

Rukia listens on boredly as Nanao wraps up the final announcements of events taking place at the festivities tomorrow. 

While Rukia wouldn’t say it aloud nor would she actively wish ill on Soul Society, she almost _misses_ the excitement that absorbed them months ago because the alternative is well… _tedious_ ….

New forms will be issued for incident reports. They are stuck with austerity measures until the remainder of the Central 46 can be assembled to pass an actual budget. The renovations are ongoing but have hit a few challenges and will take longer than planned.

Boring. Boring. Boring.

At the end of the vice captain meeting, a thought takes hold of Matsumoto. A bad one. One that Rukia very badly wants to _discourage._

“Kabuki!” Matsumoto chirps. “We should go see one before the dance tomorrow!”

A resounding, mostly _male_ , “no,” wipes the excitement from her face. “C’mon!” she cries. “It’ll be fun!” All it takes is for her to poke out her bottom lip to win the male vice captains back to her side. 

Rukia lets a heavy breath filter from her nose. She isn’t as easily convinced.

“It’ll give us inspiration!” continues Matsumoto.

Isane seems on board. Nanao’s lips twist to the side, as if she’s wrestling with the thought before giving into Matsumoto’s hopeful stare. Momo, however, crosses her arms over her chest, reluctant to agree.

“They’re the best dancers!” says Matsumoto and places her hands over Momo’s shoulders. “We’ll improve by leaps and bounds if we go to kabuki!”

Momo purses her lips and _sighs_. “Okay. I guess?” gaze drifting to Rukia for support.

Rukia cringes inwardly. No. She doesn’t want to go to a kabuki theater tonight and agonize even more over the dance. What she wants is to forget about it completely. _Ugh._ How did she get dragged into this mess in the first place? 

Despite these dreadful feelings, Rukia crumbles under the weight of her colleagues’ collective stare. “Sure,” she mutters.

Brother isn’t going to like this one bit if he finds out. He’s such a _prude_ about these things, about appearance, about decorum. The Pleasure Quarters isn’t a place where proper, comported Kuchiki ladies visit. 

“Great! It’s on, then!” declares Matsumoto, brandishing a charming smile. “We’ll meet up at the Third District in an hour. I know a guy who can get us all in even if it’s booked up.”

 _Wonderful_ , Rukia thinks ruefully. They’ll be going in the side entrance, at least. Maybe Brother won’t find out. 

Renji hangs back with Rukia as the rest of the vice captains file out of the room. 

“You coming, Renji?” Hisagi asks, glancing over his shoulder. 

“I’ll catch up,” Renji _lies_. 

Rukia knows full well that Renji’s going to stay at the manor until she’s ready to leave. 

“Okay,” says Hisagi before disappearing through the door.

“See you at the Third, Renji,” Kira says with a knowing smirk and leaves.

“You can go catch up with your friends, if you want to,” Rukia says quietly. “I was just going to say good night to Sister before heading out.”

Renji perks up a little at this, and she thinks he’s tempted to take her up on the offer to run after Hisagi and Kira. “Gonna ask for permission, eh?” he teases her instead.

Rukia rolls her eyes. “No,” she grumbles under her breath, even though the word “yes” flashes in neon chaser lights inside her head. 

“You know your sister used to work in the Pleasure Quarters?” he observes. “Might want to tone down your judgy-ness when you mention where you’re going to her.”

Rukia blinks. “I’m not being judgy, Renji!” At the sound of her voice—defensive and petulant—she _sighs_. 

He’s right, she’s being judgy. 

Renji raises a brow. “It’s _kabuki_. No one’s asking you to tour a whorehouse.”

Folding her arms against her chest, Rukia cocks her head to the side. “Toured a lot of whorehouses in your time, Renji?”

“More than you, Princess.”

Her eyes widen. _What?_

He laughs at her. “I accompanied your sister to one of the nicer ones after….” his voice drifts off. 

“After what?” demands Rukia.

What the _hell_? Also, why hadn’t either of them—Sister or Renji—mentioned this to her before now? When did this even happen? 

“I sort of,” he begins, sounding guilty as hell, “it’s not really important now.” 

“What. Was. The. Reason. Renji?” she asks, careful to enunciate each word crisply so he understands that she’s serious.

“I may have….” His eyes skitter to the trim of the floor. “I may have spilled some ink on one of your nice kimono, and I may have asked your sister for some assistance.”

Her arms fall straight, and her hands ball into fists at her side. “What?” She cannot believe it. “Renji!”

Defensively, he raises his hands, palm-side up. “Everything was fine. More than fine. The kimono guy at the house cleaned it up. Made it good as new. You never even noticed. And, I paid your sister back, after, you know, half a year of installment payments.”

“I don’t believe you.”

He shrugs. “It’s true. You can ask Ikkaku and Yumichika.”

“No, I don’t believe that Sister accepted your payments.”

“I mean, she didn’t. I started hiding them around the house after her first ten refusals. Someone found them and put them to use, I’m sure. Probably made some maid’s day.”

“Also, what the hell do Ikkaku and Yumichiki have to do with anything?”

An anxious chuckle sputters out of Renji. “Well, you see, they were…. They were sorta…. They were there. At the house, I mean.”

“The manor where you ruined my kimono?”

“No, the brothel.”

“With you and Sister?”

Renji nods his head. “It was weird.”

“Which part, _Renji_?” Because it all sounds pretty _weird_. And, poor Sister. Her kindness spent on this dolt!

Renji withers under her stare. “The brothel part. That was a little weird.”

Mortification enters Rukia at the thought that comes next: “Did you have a woman while there?” Oh, sweet lords, what madness had her dear sister endured at his hands?

She needs to sit down, head aching at the thought.

“No!” he says, again raising his palms up in defense. “I mean—”

Rukia stares up at him, blood pressure soaring as she waits for him to find the words.

“—I mean, there was a woman there in the room with us.”

“Oh, so you all _shared_ a woman. How economical.”

“It wasn’t like that!” Renji stares at her, wide-eyed and breathless, as if _she’s_ scandalized _him_ with the thought of having sex with three people at the same time _._

“No. We had _tea_ ,” he pauses, as if to rethink what, precisely, they had been doing, “with the brothel mistress and one of the girls—ladies—women,” he stammers. “Nothing happened. Your Sister was in the room, too. It was nothing. Just a meeting in a brothel.” 

“Just a meeting in a brothel,” Rukia parrots the words back at him, irony thick in her tone. “Just like all those _other_ _normal brothel_ meetings.”

His shoulders deflate, and he turns his head to stare into the lattice frame of the shoji door. 

Rukia knows Renji wants to strangle her, his fingers curling into balls at his side. Sometimes he’s too easy.

“I believe you, you idiot,” she says, “Next time, though, maybe tell me when you decide to go brothel hopping.”

The momentary relief that had straightened his back and squared his shoulders rushes out of him at the last part. “I _don’t_ go brothel hopping!”

“Okay. Decide to arrange a meeting a brothel.” She flings open the door to the room.

“Rukia,” he says and follows her into the corridor.

“Really, I’d like to know what factors you take into consideration for your regular ole brothel meetings.”

“ _Rukia._ ”

“Lighting?”

“ _Ru-ki-a_.”

“Number of people? Food served? The luxuriousness of the fusuma?”

“Rukia!”

“Shall I keep going?”

“Please don’t.” 

She smiles up at him and jams her elbow into his side. 

Immediately, he doubles over, brow twitching. “Ow.” 

“Wait here,” she orders before crossing into the next corridor. 

They’re on the edge of her siblings’ private quarters. While it’s never been directly communicated to Rukia, she senses that Brother and Sister are particular about who may enter their compartment without invitation.

Sister probably wouldn’t care if Renji tromped through the rooms on Rukia’s heels. Brother, however, most definitely would, especially since Brother has gone from icy to glacial whenever he encounters Renji now. 

Rukia slips through the next set of shoji doors. Unexpectedly, she finds the steward, who greets her with a bow. “Lady Rukia,” he murmurs at his feet, “how may I serve milady?”

“Are Brother and Sister in residence?”

He shakes his head. “No, milady. They left just a few moments ago to view the plum blossoms.”

Oh, right. The tradition. Every year, before the hanami hosted by the city, Brother and Sister have their own private nighttime umemi. The rows of plum and apricot trees are lit with lanterns and remain that way until the festival is over

“Is there something the matter, milady? I could send someone to alert the Lord and Lady if it is urgent,” adds the steward.

Rukia shakes her head. “No need. Thank you,” she says and bows her head.

Well, that settles it. She’s stuck with no Sister to forbid her. Kabuki theater, here she comes. Dammit.

When she returns to Renji, she finds him staring into the courtyard. Night smokes between the patches of twilight, turning all it touches a velvety shade of blue.

“Ready?” she asks.

All it takes is a nod of his head, and they set out. 

Rukia takes a path that cuts close to the lit plum blossoms. She’s not missing her chance to enjoy the glowing lanterns before they’re packed up for another year. She loves them dearly. Especially in the thick of night, the lanterns look like fireflies trapped in a blackened sea.

“Hey, what’s this?” asks Renji as they thread through a few of the trees.

“You’ve never seen them?” Rukia is _shocked_. How could he _miss_ them for _fifty years_? 

“Uh, no.”

“Every year Brother has a night viewing of the plum trees for Sister. Plum blossoms are her favorite.”

“Like a party?”

Rukia shakes her head. “No. It’s just them, I think.”

“That’s—” Renji’s voice strangles between them at the abruptness with which it stops.

Rukia glances askance at him. The warm lantern light limns his profile in gold. “ _That’s_ what?” she asks, an unfamiliar sensation clenching her stomach. 

“Ya’know,” he says and shrugs his shoulders like he expects her to fill in the rest.

“No, I don’t _know_.” Again, her stomach shifts uncomfortably when her gaze lands on him. 

He looks…. 

Now, her heart hurts.

“It’s thoughtful,” he says after a long moment of mulling over his words.

Renji does not _parse his words_. What is this?

“Brother is very thoughtful,” she says. 

“Do you like it?” he asks, his eyes finding hers. 

There’s an earnestness to his stare, an earnestness that makes her suddenly feel very self-aware. She shifts uncomfortably in her shihakusho. Her silks suddenly feel too hot as they slide against her skin. 

Is she sick? She feels sick: Heart hammering in her chest, stomach churning, head pounding, ice replacing her blood, and flesh going as hot as sun-drenched asphalt. None of that is normal, right?

It was probably Momo’s sesame cookies, she concludes. Maybe she’s developed a sesame allergy. Yeah, it’s probably that. She shouldn’t have snuck three of them at the meeting.

“The trees, I mean,” he prompts her again.

“Of course, I like it, Renji. Who doesn’t like plum blossoms?” she snaps at him.

He stares at her, nonplussed, and pauses under one of the lanterns. The honey-yellow light catches him, and she stops, breath sticking in her chest.

He looks….

Her cheeks burn.

“Is everything okay, Rukia?” 

She’s about to launch another barbed comment his way when her gaze locks with his. The words swarming in her head go still. 

His skin shimmers pale gold, but the shadows cling to the hollows of his cheeks and neck, sharpening his jawline and bringing his features into stark contrast. His eyes the blackness of the ink that he wears proudly.

He looks….

Rukia tries her damnedest to hold the word just out of reach from her brain, but a hard squeeze of her heart dislodges it with great force.

He looks… _handsome_.

Heat blooms across her cheeks, and her eyes dive for the cover of the indigo shades crawling across her feet. She feels like she’s going to vomit, and she’s convinced that’s exactly what’s going to happen when she opens her mouth.

Instead of retching, however, she hears a voice. _Her_ voice. Her heart cuts the line to her brain, which then becomes little more than a swirling black hole in her head. 

The words vibrating in her throat _feel_ like the right ones, even if she hears them on delay. 

“I like you, okay.” Her voice strains to overcome the susurrus of leaves beating against the wind. “It’s no big deal. I just thought it’s about time one of us says something. In case—you know—the other wants something else. And, since you’re so _damn stubborn_ it has to be _me_ to speak up first.” 

Rukia sucks in a hard breath, chest trembling, limbs going boneless, and head hung in defeat. Part of her feels like she’s on her last breath. The confession didn’t kill her, but it was a close call. An even larger part of her, however, feels instant relief, the kind that comes with offloading a heavy burden.

It takes her a moment to gather the courage to look him in the face. And, when she does, she finds that he is watching her, wide-eyed and slack-jawed. 

“What?” he exclaims. “I—I—I,” he stammers, “I already confessed! I confessed _first_!” 

“What?” she exclaims back at him. “You absolutely did not!”

He takes a pace forward. “I abso-fucking-lutely did. _Months ago_!”

Not to be outdone, Rukia takes an even _longer_ stride forward. “What the hell are you talking about?” She has no idea. None. “You know, it doesn’t count if I’m sleeping or something,” she taunts him.

“No. After Aizen. After we got back home. After the picnic. I—” He inches closer and bends down to study her, as if his disbelief prevents him from seeing her clearly. “Ya’know… I….” Instead of finishing the sentence, he tugs lightly on her sleeve.

Her jaw drops. “Are you kidding me? _That_ was your _confession_?” 

She is incensed! She wants to slap him for even thinking that was a sufficient confession of anything other than he wanted more of her attention.

Renji gapes at her. “You cannot be serious. We had a whole conversation, and you took my hand after!”

“What conversation?” She remembers no conversation.

“The one about your siblings, and what counts as appropriate displays of affection.”

“You expected me to make that connection when you yanked on my sleeve?”

“I did not _yank_ your sleeve. And, you held my hand after. You _knew_ what that tug was about.”

“You don’t get credit for that, Renji. I’m the one who confessed first. Sleeve- _yanking_ doesn’t count. Like, what would we tell our friends?”

“We’d tell them that I confessed my feelings to you _three months ago_.”

“No. They’d ask for details.”

“They wouldn’t.”

“Maybe not _your friends_ , but my friends require details. And, I’m not about to admit that sleeve-tugging was how it went down.”

“Whether you admit it or not, it’s the _truth_.”

“No, it isn’t. Plus, you haven’t even answered my question.”

“What question?” he asks.

“Whether you reciprocate.” Her heart rattles in her chest. It’s the warning signal for the vulnerability that gulfs her next. 

She feels naked, transparent, and so very silly.

Renji responds to this not-question by bending down until they stand eye-to-eye. The distance between them is nothing. A flinch and they’d be touching.

Her body flashes hot again, and her pulse pounds in her throat, threatening to clamp it close. She can barely focus. Her attention becomes jittery, jumping from one thing to another, to the bend of his dark lashes, to the way the light chases the shadows across the planes of his face, to how his eyes dare to skim her lips. 

Reflexively, her hands grip his shoulders. The silk of his kosode barely registers when she feels the flex of muscle shifting against her fingers, which hook deeper into his flesh. She lifts her head, her lips a hairsbreadth from his. 

It’s an invitation neither can resist, and he closes the distance before she can.

At the press of his mouth against hers, Rukia stiffens, every fiber in her body feeling like she’s just set them on fire. The free-fall sensation of panic hits next. It holds her down, reminding her that she has no earthly idea what she’s doing. Kissing. Tenderness. Any of it. And, well, Renji seems to have some thoughts on the subject. And practice. This, too, scares her.

She hates feeling like she’s a beat behind, burdened by her own inexperience.

Wide-eyed, she watches the shadows rip the rest of the woods away from her vision until it feels like they stand alone in the world. Alone and singular under the twinkling light of the lantern, surrounded by a sea of night. Finding comfort in this thought—that it’s just them, just them alone and against the world, like always—she lets go. 

Her eyes fall shut, and she sinks into him. He’s careful, attentive, and, when he tries to pull away, she won’t allow it. She wants more, fingers twining in his hair, keeping him bound to her.

That is until the sharp sound of someone clearing his throat pierces her as cold and hateful as any blade. Immediately, Rukia jolts back, wary of the darkness like it’s an opponent. 

“Everything alright?” comes Sister’s gentle voice.

Shit. They are so _busted_. 

Rukia wants to dissolve into ash. Right there. Right then.

Renji straightens, shoulders shifting the collar and fall of his kosode, which are askew. Damningly low and askew. 

Rukia can _feel_ Brother’s presence next to Sister. She can also feel his _judgment_. Is he disappointed? Disgusted? Something worse? She hasn’t the courage to hazard a glance his direction, a feeling that Renji appears to share, as he keeps his stare latched on the patch of gold light that spills from the lantern.

Sister, however, appears supremely amused. She stands with an arch in her brow, her head tilts to the side, and Rukia _knows_ she’s holding back a grin. 

“Loud voices,” begins Brother in his patented deadpan, “interrupted the atmosphere.” 

Rukia’s heart skips a beat, and she chokes on her own spit. 

_Did Brother just tease them?_

She wants to check to be sure, but she stops short, afraid that she’s wrong and that he’s just super pissed that their argument interrupted his time with Sister.

“We’re good,” she answers, meekly, realizing that her siblings aren’t likely to leave without an answer. “Thanks for checking.” 

“Don’t stay out too late,” sing-songs Sister, who is eager to leave them be.

When Brother remains, glaring at Renji, Sister reaches back, grabs Brother’s hand, and yanks him along after her.

Alone, Rukia and Renji stand awkwardly staring into the darkness that chews at the edge of the circle of lantern light. “Well, that was—” she begins, half-worried that Brother and Sister can hear them and half-worried that she’s going to screw this up somehow.

“Good?” he supplies, gaze hopeful when it finds her.

“Yeah,” she murmurs, her mouth tilting into a grin. 

The warmth of his kiss still lingers on her lips. It feels nice, a thought that she turns over in her head while nudging a pile of blossoms with the toe of her waraji.

Renji steps to her side, and slowly they inch down the path. “Captain Kuchiki and Lady Kuchiki,” he begins shyly.

Rukia shakes her head. “It’s fine.” Sister seemed alright with what she saw, and, if Sister’s fine, she’ll smooth over whatever negative feelings Brother may harbor. She’s good at that.

“No,” Renji says, “they were holding hands when they found us.”

Rukia blinks up at him. Is that it? He’s going to blow right past the part where her siblings busted them kissing? She shakes her head at him and the dopey look he’s giving her.

That _heart-meltingly_ dopey look.

“ _Fine_ ,” she sighs under her breath and stuffs her hand in his.

She won’t admit it aloud, but she likes the way his hand envelops hers. It feels a lot like safety and protection, and she likes those feelings, even though she realizes the inherent vulnerability that comes with wanting those things. A warm flush creeps back into her cheeks as they continue down the road, lit trees flanking them on both sides.

“The hand-holding isn’t the most interesting thing, though,” she notes, taking momentary satisfaction at the detail she caught and Renji seemingly missed.

“Oh?” he asks. “What’s that?”

“The petals in their hair.”

Renji recoils in surprise before settling into a smirk. “I see.”

Rukia returns his smirk with a wolfish grin. 

Oh, yeah, she takes great comfort in knowing that she and Renji weren’t the only dolts indulging among the plum blossoms.


End file.
